“Are you sure?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This is the third time I’ve heard you say that this week.”
“It’s true! I feel like my brain is constipated!”
“Oh! Now I see where the shitty ideas are spewing from.” He smirks ironically.
“I’m going to die from writer’s block.”
“Nobody has ever died from writer’s block! Can you quit whining?”
I look away and continue to sulk. He traces the invisible wood grains on the table with his fingernail and hums under his breath.
Outside, rain clouds paint my epitaph.
on the same line as me silverfish